


The Great Holmes: A Love Story

by ohdrey89



Series: Deductive Deviations [7]
Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sherlock (TV), The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anderson Is An Idiot, Anderson Is a Dick, Captain John Watson, Character Death, Doctor John Watson, F/M, Gatsby!lock, Gift Fic, Gift Work, Jazz Age, Murder-Suicide, POV John Watson, Post-World War I, Silver Fox Lestrade, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Triggers, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:32:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4816973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohdrey89/pseuds/ohdrey89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The game is on as our favorite cast of characters from Sherlock come together - for better or for worse - in the glittering Jazz Age. It's a story of love and excess told as only Fitzgerald can tell it with characters only Doyle (and Moffat & Gatiss) can write! </p><p>Let's quick step our way through time back to the age of champagne and cigarettes, jazz and dapper dress. Break out your zoot suit and bathtub gin as we descend into Gatsby!lock</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Holmes: A Love Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lovelymissmolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovelymissmolly/gifts).



> This one is a gift for the wonderful (and lovely) lovelymissmolly or thewomanwhocounts as she was one of my lovely readers who left the most wonderful and loveliest comments on second chances. Many thanks for this fabulous idea, doll! You're really swell. 
> 
> Thanks to her I've descended into the madness of Jazz Age slang and now can't stop saying things like sheba and bee's knee's, and cat's pajamas. 
> 
> If you're wondering it's not strictly Sherlock at all, though there are bits. In fact this story just sort of takes Sherlock's characters and stuffs them into the Gatsby world. I hope lovelymissmolly and the rest of you enjoy it! 
> 
> To belay any confusion I will list who plays who between Sherlock and Gatsby. These are our cast of characters:
> 
> Sherlock – Jay Gatsby  
> John – Nick Carroway  
> Molly – Daisy Buchannan  
> Greg – Tom Buchannan  
> Donovan – Myrtle Wilson  
> Anderson – George Wilson  
> Mycroft - Meyer Wolfsheim  
> Mary – Jordan Baker
> 
> And I really hope it was what you wanted lovelymissmolly!!
> 
> Oh and just one quick note. ****SPOILERS!!!**** For anyone who hasn't read Gatsby, this pretty much follows the basic plot, so heed my warning.
> 
> Disclaimer: We didn't create it, we're not making money from it. But that's not going to stop the ideas from coming, so here we all are anyway. We might as well live.

**The Great Holmes: A Love Story**

 

**\---**

_The relation of this story to you, Reader, will seem quite muddled. As the details of it, continue to wash over me as I bang away at the keys of my typewriter. All these long months later, I sit here in complete shock. But to not speak of such things to anyone would be a crime, as they tell the story of a man, insignificant to any passerby… but a brilliant, impossible man who touched my life in a way few can claim. I am forever changed since the day I met the Great Sherlock Holmes. The bravest, and wisest man I have ever known._

_And this is the story of his greatest love._

\---

It was the summer of 1925, a hot summer that year in the south of England, London to be precise, where I considered myself to be a resident. I was home from the war in France, when I say home, I mean that it had been years since I had been back but I still carried the war with me in the scars it left on my body and my mind. I had been a doctor during the war, a surgeon, and after I had a brilliant but slow general practice. Once I was well enough, I looked after the veterans still struggling with their place in the world for my conscience and looked after a select few wealthy men who refused to leave London to pay for my own way. But I was gladdened to find that the country was still thriving despite the subtle fractures that still ran through the eyes of men that had fought and in the ways industrialism had ripped the culture of our country apart. Automobiles and machines rumbling through the country like monsters, and factories infecting the sooty air of London with black smoke that smelt of greed and destruction.

So instead of finding ourselves chastened, distraught at the destruction we had wrought, the world around me decided to start a party that would seemingly never end. Jazz was at its finest hour, Cole Porter was singing of love and bees in France with F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, Picasso was painting, Salvador Dali was… well, doing whatever surrealists do, and I was heading for a long overdue vacation along the sea in the south of England. Brighton to be exact. It had been a suggestion of my sister Harriet or Harry as she preferred, while she was drunk on champagne bubbles. Mike Stamford and his wife encouraged it wholeheartedly as they toasted to a bon voyage. And now here I was, on a train, not knowing what I would find there, unbeknownst as to the man that would await my arrival.

I rented a house just outside Brighton, just along the coast and an easy drive to the city and its pier that loomed in the background. I ventured to write while I was making a change of scenery, or at least make a go at writing something. I had always been writing, when I was a lad, at university. Now here I was entering my forties and nothing to show for myself except some military service and some extra money accrued thanks to my skills in caring for others. I determined that this vacation would be different. But already I was a few days breathing the fresher air, enjoying the sea and I hadn’t written a word. That was the thing about writing, there’s never any time and once you find it, there’s nothing to write. My friends all suggested a biography, something about my time as a soldier, a surgeon in the army. But that’s just the thing. Nothing ever happens to me.

The little cottage itself was decent enough for my needs at the time. I had rented the house because it was a steal, an extension of property owned by a member of my own family. A cousin. Her unmarried name had been Molly Hooper. She was shy and timid, but I was never one to let her quiet nature fool me. She was a very strong woman, her eyes spoke of a distant tale of woe. Something to really awe and sadden one should she tell it. I often remember her staring into nothingness with a faraway look during times we spent together as a family right before the war reached its peak. It hadn’t been long into the war until Molly decided to marry. And she chose well enough, in a man I now knew as Greg, but he had been Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He came from a very posh family and had the attitude to go with it. He was a man that made his mark in the military police. He was a lucky man, and not just in securing my cousin’s hand but in business as well. An intelligent man in his own right, knew how to strike a deal worth making that would make him money. He had used his military influence to his gain in many shrewd and lucky business deals that afforded many luxuries for himself and Molly, not that he had needed such efforts before, but the money and political connections had made his position indisputable. Now Molly was showered with elegance, clothes, jewelry, and champagne, anything she could want. That was how I ended up on the coast of England, renting what they called the carriage house. It belonged to the mansion my cousins had purchased and therefore belonged to Greg. And here I was, paying my dues as guest and renter, visiting the mansion to pay my long overdue respects to the happy couple. They had married during the war, and it was a long time before I could be free from my duties as army surgeon and later doctor, to pay them a visit.

I made the long trudge up to the mansion itself, up a rather steep hill. Or at least at the time it had seemed steep to a limping man, such as I was, cane and all. A knock on the rather large door, with a large lion-shaped knocker that was almost too heavy for even myself, and I was introduced to a smarmy butler who obviously thought I was some riff-raff until I introduced myself, then it was all politeness.

I was escorted to the parlor, in an uncertain state on the heels of the well-pressed butler. I seemed out of place in the middle of such elegance, but being a relative of the mistress of so fine an estate the butler chose not to look down his nose at me too haughtily, and I fumbled about adjusting my attire as I took in the lavishness of the place. He lead me behind the grand staircase, and the equally grand main hall that was all Italian marble, wrought iron, and solid maple, to the south facing hallway. The butler opened up the double doors that lead into the room in question, and at first I was blinding by the pure summer sunlight that came pouring from the large windows within the room. Once my vision cleared, I looked around the space that continued to awe and astound me.

A breeze was blowing through the white linen curtains – though from the carriage house, that was more cottage than house, you wouldn’t have known there had been a breeze at all – giving the room a refreshing air that contrasted greatly with the over-adorned, heavy Art Deco furnishings that were all black gold and crystal. It wasn’t appealing to my unpracticed eye, though everything in the room was brand new and top of the line. All around the space were pieces of jewelry, clothes, boxes full of fluttering, whispering tissue paper, and hat boxes containing feathered concoctions that blew in the breeze, ready to fly out and rejoin their feathered flocks. Littering the room were bottles of Dom Pérignon in different stages of being consumed, some were open and warm, others were fresh and still had ice melting in their silver, engraved buckets with condensation congealing and rolling down the sides. All over the buckets left their puddles on the floor, and wet imprints in the large white and black Greek key patterned area rug and furniture, upholstery and black lacquered wood alike. I recognized my cousins chestnut hair as she lounged in the couch that was turned away from the double doors the butler had opened for me. To her left was a scrumptious looking blonde slip of a lady eased back into a swerving easy-chair that I did not know. The dame’s face was familiar yet I couldn’t place her in my moment of wariness at entering the house of my cousin who was married as yet (to me) a virtual stranger, but this cousin of mine was now used to being in the company of a higher class of people and I was used to seeing her in the society columns of the Times quite often. The blonde pointed in my direction, signaling to her host an interloper was among them. My cousin had apparently been speaking privately with her, and I was interrupting. Molly turned around and smiled gladly upon seeing me, a full gleeful smile that left no quarter for unsure feelings. There was nothing awkward in my cousin, even though I barely recall her in my memories. I could count on my hands the number of times I had seen her. The longest time we had spent together was an entire summer when Harry and I stayed with her family. But I was glad that this day I could brighten her face. My cousin popped up, from her seat on the couch and came running to me despite the oppressive heat, which even came into the room despite the refreshing breeze. She must have been bored, as she overtly gushed at my presence. She fussed over me, calling me her Johnny and asking how I was. I was chastised for not coming all the way from France to see her after the end of the war, but when asked how I fared, I mentioned my shoulder that still pained me and that’s when she looked down at the cane.

I will speak of this quickly so as not to interfere with the rest of the story, I was shot during the war. I spent the rest of the incursion recovering and a year after the armistice repairing other wounded soldiers, but where they were free from their burdens once they healed, I now moved around on a cane. The cane that allowed me to walk around, as I was encumbered by a limp that told more about how my mind had been felled during the war. There was more than just my shoulder that pained me when it rained. Molly embraced me then, not letting the moment become awkward as she tried not to stare at my damaged body, just glad that I survived. I was glad for that too. Most days.

I took my opportunity to also appraise my cousin. I teased her as to her new haircut. Gone were the long brown waves I had come to know, as I spent ages laying onto their sun-warmed softness while we had playing in her parents’ backyard, and every time I picnicked with her as we got older before I left for the war. In their place, she now sported a dainty bob that suited the mature woman she had become. Her figure had developed since I had last saw her, and before me was Molly Lestrade, she was indeed Molly Hooper in my eyes no more. Though I could tell from the light blush that still feathered her cheeks, she had not lost her shy, quiet attitude.

The blonde woman that sat in the chair cleared her throat in a polite bit to be introduced. I observed her with curiosity as she filled the room with cigarette smoke. She took long drafts into her lungs from a long, fashionable, ebony cigarette holder. I was more than encouraged to see that this trip to the South of England wouldn’t be entirely fruitless. This woman proved to be very enticing as she uncrossed her exceptionally long legs and stood up to be introduced. Molly gushed over this friend of hers, like she had gushed over seeing me again, and introduced us.

“Johnny, oh Johnny, you just have to meet this absolutely swell friend of mine. Mary Morstan. Mary, this is my favorite cousin, John Watson. He was a doctor in the war.” The first thing I noticed about Mary were her lovely gams. The second thing I noticed was that she was an absolute sheba of a girl. Apparently Molly was unaware of my reputation around very attractive women, the moniker “Three Continents Watson” had followed me everywhere during the war and long after, in the right sort of company. In the white tennis skirt and jumper she wore, I was already on the prowl before Mary had shook my hand. Once I felt the softness of her skin, I was done in.

“Hello, Johnny.” Mary’s voice danced the Charleston over my senses.

“Just John, please, Mary. Only Molls calls me Johnny.” Molly smiled at thinking she had been quite the clever little thing at introducing us, she would be right but not entirely for the reasons she probably hoped.

“Maybe I might like calling you Johnny too.” Mary suggested with a flirtatious smile and a wink. I conceded that she could and we began talking. I stumbled over her many rapid fire subjects and found she was decent enough company, and almost too good of a conversationalist for me. I couldn’t help noticing that as she talked to me her eyes were that of a huntress, keen for a conquest and my cane didn’t seem to deter her in the least.

I took a seat next to my cousin, who really had pulled me into the large white couch. It was far too plush as I sunk into the cushions, and I sat into it, shifting about, hoping that when the time came I would be able to get out of it again. When I questioned whether or not I had interrupted the ladies, Molly gladly shrugged off the interruption, though Mary was uncertain of this and exchanged a look with my cousin I found worrisome. Molly looked to the mantle clock and announced that Greg would be returning from a round of golf soon and that I should stay to meet him. Another look and I noticed that this announcement did little to thrill my cousin. Her mood changed like a passing of a roadster automobile. Her happiness was here and then it was gone again. Mary’s own face had a hard look to it that I found prickled the back of my head with concern.

Mary announced that she wouldn’t remain to see Greg, and that she would get in a round of tennis before dinner. When asked if I would join her, I pointed to my cane and declined. Mary had the decency to blush and hastily made her exit. It wasn’t her fault, though I did feel a warm feeling spread through me when she blushed and for the embarrassment of calling attention to my cane it had been worth it.

Once the woman left, I asked what Mary did to support herself, and looked to know more about her. Molly smiled at being given the opportunity to speak of her friend. “She worked as a nurse during the war, though I think she worked more in the hospitals while you were in the trenches, right, Johnny?” I confirmed her question with a smile and a nod. Molly continued. “Now she plays tennis, and loves to hunt. She is fierce with a loaded gun. Though I guess a little bit of danger never scared off Johnny Watson.” We were having a good laugh at this and I found myself falling against my cousin, easy affection flowing between us. The doors opened in the middle of our sharing of laughter and Greg Lestrade walked in.

He held an intimidating air that squelched whatever happy feelings we had been sharing. Molly looked down to the white rug on the floor with a despondent air. I wondered what had transpired between my favorite, and really only, cousin and her husband.

“Who might you be?” Greg questioned, angry at my presence. He was still dressed in his golfing costume, and held a nine iron in his right hand. He didn’t recognize me, or know me. So I supposed he thought I was Molly’s paramour. Though why he would need to suppose that about Molly at all gave me even more alarm, as I was equally worried that he felt the need to cart around his golf club, clearly using the game as an excuse. This supposition confirmed what little evidence I had that though Molly lived comfortable, her marriage was clearly not a happy one. Molly rose onto her knees on the couch, hands spread along the back of it, meeting Greg squarely in the eye from where he stood at the doors. Her lips took on a slight pleading sort of a pout I recognized from our childhood that was usually a way for her to get attention from her parents, or to get what she wanted from someone.

“Gregory. This is Johnny, my cousin? He’s renting the carriage house.” Molly explained, her brown eyes wide as saucers and her tone plaintive, clearly begging the man not to start introductions by being antagonistic. At this explanation, Greg’s whole demeanor soften towards me as if I was a long-term friend of his, holding out his head with a jovial chuckle. I bristled at the familiarity and stood with my customary military stance, straight-backed and shoulders square as I would any stranger. He put the club into his left hand so that he was able to take my hand in his and shook it vigorously, he was right to assume he had a wide gaffe to make up for in my impression of him.

“Johnny, how the ‘ell are you?” Greg grumbled in a friend way.

“Just fine, Lestrade.” I answered quietly, in a stern way.

“No, now none of this ‘Lestrade’ business, mate, call me Greg!” Greg laughed to try to defuse the tension, once I noticed how Molly relaxed, I did as well. I smiled and took back my hand, for Greg had still been vigorously shaking it, and my shoulder could only take so much.

“Alright Greg it is, then.” I conceded, with a thin smile. Greg motioned for me to sit back down and took a seat in one of the chairs opposite the couch, surveying all the champagne bottles that littered the room. He picked one up, made a face at the label, clearly wondering if Molly and her friend had consumed anything more expensive than he deemed should be drunk during the day and returned it to its bucket. Molly had her arms crossed where she slumped into the couch across from me. Her leg rested across my lap, she hadn’t done that since we were children. I noted Molly hadn’t changed, being petulant in front of Greg. When Greg asked after Mary, Molly explained where she was in a mumble that was barely audible. He asked after their children, a niece and nephew I had never met, and he received a similar response in an equal mumble. I could see Greg’s jaw working, telling of a temper that was skirting the edge of wearing on his patience. Greg instead turned his attention to me again.

“John, I hope you’re going to stay for dinner.” Greg smiled twirling his club artfully, fighting to keep his temper at bay.

“Oh, please Johnny!” Molly reached out with a pleading smile. I couldn’t disappoint my family.

“I have no other plans…” I teased my cousin and she hugged me, happy to have her cousin at her dinner table. I noticed even this familial hug was looked upon enviously by my cousin’s partner. Shortly after, Greg gruffly excused himself to change for dinner. Molly sighed and watched the doors he left through with a sorrowful look. Clearly there was tension between the couple, but something that my cousin clearly wanted to mend. I did my best to cheer her until a butler announced that dinner was waiting. We didn’t talk of their problems and I didn’t ask.

I won’t lie to you reader, and suppose that the dinner was anything akin to being enjoyable. The tension between Lestrade and Molly could be cut with a knife, and when they weren’t staring murderously or suspiciously at each other, they sniped through the conversation they tried to gauge myself and Mary in. This regrettably caused the conversation I tried to have with Mary to be just as stilted. Eventually I bit back on my anger at their childish behavior and simply paid attention to my meal. It was decent enough and really I couldn’t be more thankful than not being forced to cook for myself. I hadn’t managed more than beans and toast in a while, living the bachelor’s life. Still beans and toast before my typewriter looked grand in comparison to this little slice of luxurious hell.

Once Mary could tell I had more than finished my meal, she made excuses for herself claiming to be in need of a walk and a smoke. She asked if I could join her, and at the affirming nod, both she and I made out way out to the garden behind the house. The fresh air was delightful, even in the middle of summer, when compared with the stifling atmosphere of the dining room.

Mary’s tinkling laughter danced across my senses. “Has your cousin always been like that?” Mary questioned turning around to face me, as she lit a cigarette. Forsaking her usual longer cigarette holder for a shorter one in the ease of just a quick puff. She offered me one, but the habit went against the grain with me and my doctor’s ways. Only fighting in war, drunken revelry and a raucous bout of love making could induce me to imbibe in the habit.

“When we were children, yes, given the right circumstances. But never that bad. I’ve never seen her so unhappy.” I reflected sadly looking out to the stars, wondering how my cousin had placed herself in such an unloving situation. Domesticity and comfort are poor sacrifices to make for happiness.

“Well it’s been like this for a while now, not at first. Every couple has their bit of delight, and theirs was such a lovely story at that too. Finding love during the war and all that rot. But the honeymoon atmosphere was quick to fizzle.” Mary explained taking a long pull from her cigarette and blowing smoke out into the air. I couldn’t help admiring her pert cheeks accentuated by the curl of her bob, styled for the evening. I nodded in understanding, glad that she took the pains to catch me up on how my cousin’s life had turned out while I had been at war.

“I suppose I should thank you for being there for her then.” I smiled looking into Mary’s eyes, noting the heat there.

“You shouldn’t be too quick to thank me, I don’t always stick around. There’s only so much I can take of that.” Mary waved towards the dining room, where we could the clanging crash of silverware against china and see through the bilious curtains that Greg had been angrily standing ready to leave when the butler interrupted his retreat. “Then I go off to London or somewhere else and only come back when Molly begs me.” Mary looked away sheepishly until I took her hand in mine.

“Still you’re there for her,” I pulled Mary close to me and delighted in the little gasp I received when I pulled her body against mine. I may have been broken but I wasn’t a pushover. “But I wonder if there’s anyone there for you?” I questioned as I brought her lips in for a kiss. It was nothing more than a brush of lips, in the short time we had before we were interrupted. When the doors to the dining room burst open, it was Molly who regarded us with a minute hint of jealousy before calling out.

“There you both are! You’ll be jazzed when I tell you what just happened!” Mary pulled away with a small whimper of regret she thought I didn’t hear, but I met her eyes trying to convey a silent promise for something more to happen between us later. It would keep.

“What is it, Molly?” I asked genially, even though she knew full well what she had been interrupting, the minx that she was.

“We’ve been invited to a party, at Holmes’s place!!” Molly announced as Mary shrieked with delight running to Molly to dance around in a little quick step with her in excitement.

I looked to the two of them incredulously. I had never heard the name before and had no idea why it would cause such celebration. “Who?”

Both women looked to me like I had three heads. “The infamous Holmes, he’s beyond wealthy. To get invited to his place means you’re a real big cheese. And we’re all invited!” Molly looked around excitedly at everyone, ready to jump out of her skin with happiness, when just moments before she was probably ready to cry. Her mercurial shift in mood was boggling to me, that someone else could have that effect on her without even being in the room. “And the party is tonight!” Molly looked around excitedly.

“I’m not exactly dressed for a party.” I waved off the invitation as best as I could.

“Oh Johnny, you can’t miss out. You don’t know if you’ll ever get invited again and it’s a Holmes party. They’re legendary. You can borrow one of Lestrade’s suits and will be quite dashing enough to attend. There’s so many people, it’s really a swell sight to see. You must come with us.” Mary encouraged with a hand on my arm. It left me warm all over and at her look I really couldn’t refuse.

“Alright.” I agreed hesitantly, Lestrade clapped excitedly rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

“Excellent! John come with me and we’ll get suited up, and we’ll all meet in the living room in an hour and be on our way.” Lestrade quickly shuffled me into his room and had me trussed up in his second best suit. But I couldn’t help the curiosity that both spouses seemed to show more excitement for a party than for each other. But truthfully, nothing was more curious than this man named Holmes and how he could send out an invitation the night of for a party and expect people to attend. I was prepared to spend a very boring evening among strangers doing nothing. But I had been so wrong.

\---

The days that followed that first party flew into nearly a fortnight. It was a never ending barrage of parties where the gold leaf glittered as it fell from the ceiling like rain and the champagne flowed like river water bursting from the dam of their corked bottles. Champagne, whiskey, gin, it all flowed freely. The people were merry but it is hard not to be merry when one is completely zozzled. They danced and sang, to the jazz bands that were in regular rotation and toasted these evenings all to the great Holmes and his wealth. Everywhere people spoke of him, mentioned having met him and every single one of them had a different story to tell of his brilliance, his wealth, his bravery during the war. Drunken tales were foisted upon you whether you wanted to hear them or not.

For my part, I did imbibe a very little but found no fun in it. Alcohol only darkened my mood and spoke to my mind in a voice too familiar and that of my father. You could not walk through a party like that without finding a drink in your hand. Greg chased Molly around these parties, until he was rebuffed and would leave to spitefully partake of one of the many faceless women, regrettably. It was a sad affair to witness and more than once he wanted me to help in the sport but like the drinking I found no fun in it. With Mary off dancing with any number of fancy gigolos, and my cane didn’t allow me to do, that left me as the odd man out.

Once again I found myself alone, the party and the temptation to drink more forced me outside on one of these nights, and through the pretty grounds of the mysterious man's estate, I found another lonely chap standing along the pier looking out onto the waters. There he was staring into the waterway between Holmes’s mansion and all that lay beyond it. I approached as quietly as I was able for a man being assisted by a thumping cane. Sensing himself disturbed, the man in question turned around and smiled to me shaking my hand.

"I don't believe we've met, old chap. Holmes, Sherlock Holmes." He smiled to me in a very open way and I laughed in surprise as I found myself before the infamous Holmes himself. I was drawn to him instantly, though I doubt it was a way that most people saw him. They only came to partake of his hospitality, they wanted little to do with getting to know the man himself. How isolated and lonely he appeared to me now, segregated and solitary while his house was full of people. Everyone talked about the many mysteries enveloping his reputation, and no one knew with certainty whether or not their version of him had been the truth. I had little doubt as to any of it being true as I took in the man now. He could move through the crowd and no one would know they were speaking to the Great Sherlock Holmes. Most people that came never even knew what the man looked like. Their descriptions of him were entirely wrong. He was tall, though not intolerably so, with elegant features that spoke of some ancient royal heritage, with high cheekbones, and a pronounced full mouth with bright blue green eyes that were almost silver at times, like the churning sea. He looked to be carved of marble like an ancient Roman statue. If I were an artist I would imagine he would be well worth the study. But being a doctor, I took note of the physicality of him. He seemed to be studying myself as well, but with a keener gaze that would speak of a bloodhound on a scent more than a man. I reached out my hand to and he took it willingly shaking it in a way that would suggest he were already aware of my old war wound.

"Dr. John Watson, I came here with my cousin and her husband." I smiled and turned to look across the waters where I could see the green light from the dock behind my cousin's house.

"So are you seeing a psychiatrist for your war wounds?" Sherlock questioned. I rounded upon him in astonishment.

"How the devil could you possibly know about that?" My astonishment seemed to give him a smug sort of pleasure, as he enumerated upon all of the clues that gave me away, including the favoring of my shoulder that had been injured, and he even mentioned that given the right circumstances I could rid myself of the blasted cane. He smiled like a cat that had caught a mouse and stepped further out towards the water. He seemed drawn to it, riveted.

"I'm a bit of a keen detective you see. It's my chosen profession. You might call me a consulting detective, only one in the world." Sherlock had every right to be smug about it.

"That was brilliant!" I was completely enthralled by his talents.

“Was it?” He questioned, unsure of my applause.

“Yes it was absolutely! Brilliant! Completely brilliant!” I smiled confident of my applause of his brilliance.

"Not what I'm most likely to hear I'm afraid." Sherlock looked to me with a regretful expression. He must have known many slurs towards his abilities as reactions to the blunt truth in his deductions were too powerful to be suppressed.

"What do people normally say?" I asked.

"Piss off." I laughed at that and we shared a chuckle. The silence that prevailed was a comfortable one as his gaze seemed rapt upon a point across the water. I stood up to join him, trying to gauge what point in the landscape had him so enraptured. I gasped and pointed to my cottage with a smile.

"There's my little cottage, it belongs to my cousin's house. Her husband is letting me rent it for a fairly inexpensive price for the summer. And that's their place right there with the green light coming from the boat house, there." I pointed casually to the places as I noticed them and Sherlock grabbed my shoulders to face him. His face seemed ashen in shock, as if he were looking at the ghost of a friend.

"You know Molly Hooper?" He questioned, his grip on my shoulder caused me to wince.

"Yes she is my cousin, though she goes by Molly Lestrade now." I frowned shaking off the man's punishing grip on my shoulder. He shook his head remembering himself.

"I'm sorry old chap, you took me by surprise." Sherlock looked to the house across the water and reached out as if to grasp it, like he could pull something into his grasp from it by sheer will.

"S'fine," I assured him watched the man now instead of the view that had him so arrested.

"Molly..." I had never heard my cousin's name uttered with such longing, such passion.

"Oi, mate, steady on!" I called him back from his reverie with a start as he looked to me, putting his hands in his pockets.

"She never told you did she old chap- but- no, she wouldn't have would she? No. And by then you were probably off in the trenches..." Sherlock shook his head looking to the stars.

"Wot?" I questioned and he turned to me with a sad expression and gestured to a nearby bench before he began to tell his tale and told me of a story, his story. And how he fell in love with my cousin when she was still Molly Hooper.

I will tell you, Reader, of a very protracted version of the story that Holmes had told me. Though the telling of it will never leave me. They met while I was away at training for the army, to be a surgeon. Molly had been invited to stay with some friends of our family with my sister. I remember Harry mentioning it to me but at the time Harry hadn’t elaborated in her letters to me and I was too bogged down by the war to enquire more about it before I left for France. The family friends also happened to be mutual acquaintances with a family that knew the Holmes and invited them all to their estate the summer before the fighting in France reached its peak. That was how Sherlock and Molly first met. It was a passionate affair but was not favorable for either party. Our family was not rich enough to associate with the Holmes family and Sherlock was at the time more of a dewdropper and had yet to make his way in the world so there was little to tempt Molly or the Hoopers and vice versa into allowing the attachment. Both families were quick in separating the couple, Sherlock was called to battle, the war raged and everything changed. By the time Holmes had made his way in the world, Molly was married to Greg Lestrade. As I explained to Sherlock, she had seen no other option, and Greg had been there to woo her in Sherlock’s stead. But Sherlock Holmes still found himself obsessive in his need to be with her. Now he was a consulting detective and made his own wealth, besides inheriting what was remaining of the Holmes family fortune. All that remained wanting for Sherlock Holmes was the girl.

“So all of this,” I pointed to the house, the party and the cars the stood in the front drive of the house you could see from the pier. “All of this is for my cousin, to get her attention.” Sherlock smiled with a slow nod. He gave me a commiserating smile.

“I knew that when I kissed this girl, I would be forever wed to her.” Sherlock explained looking back out to the mansion that was now my cousin’s.

“Well she’s here you know, she’s inside…” I explained with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock turned to me with a shocked face, his eyebrows coming together in question. I nodded in confirmation.

“Show me.” He demanded of me taking my arm, well rather pulling on my arm, and directed us back into the main house where the party was in full swing. We stood in the center of the ballroom and I looked to the stairs and called out for Molly, I watched as she turned to look at me but saw who was standing next to me, and then I was completely ignored.

Molly came down the stairs to come in front of Sherlock, he looked down to her, his blue-green eyes twinkling. “Sherlock Holmes.” Molly gave a small smile.

“Molly…” Sherlock’s deep baritone rumbled out my cousin’s name passionately like rolling thunder. I could see all at once my presence wasn’t needed as I reunited the couple and I walked through the party wondering where Mary had gone.

I was wandering on the second floor by myself until I felt Greg grab my arm. “Have you seen Molly?” He questioned with a suspicious air.

“No!” I shouted over the band in a lie. It seemed appropriate to give my cousin and Sherlock Holmes some air. If this didn’t come of much, at least Molly and Holmes would be able to air their differences and say their peace. If it led to more, I felt it was better for my cousin to be happy with the right man rather than attach herself to someone that could only make her miserable.

I watched Greg look over the railing of the bannister and saw his face change to something thunderous. I noticed then that he caught Sherlock Holmes and Molly dancing in the middle of the floor. I grimaced in sympathy for Greg and he all at once sniffed in dismissal and indicated several women he had been appraising and flirting with throughout the night. He turned his back on his wife and her beau entirely to my astonishment, as Greg seemed to be a man of action when it called for it. I now saw how it really was between my cousin and her husband. He had loved her and married her, but Molly, seemed to love him enough to want his attention, thought of this other man alone. Her heart was tormented by this unanswered question that was Sherlock Holmes. Greg moved onto other women to satisfy his appetites, and if he wasn’t careful he could lose my cousin to this mysterious Holmes forever.

The party lasted until the early dawn and we returned to Lestrade’s mansion exhausted and myself in dire need of sleep. I had been intrigued by Sherlock Holmes and awed by the love that still seemed to echo in his eyes for Molly, and the astonishment that seemed to burn in her eyes for him in return. My head spun all at once from exhaustion and the thoughts that muddled my mind at the strange turn this summer took.

\---

When Holmes was not throwing a party or trying to reestablish ties with my cousin, he was traipsing about on one of his many intriguing cases solving country summer mysteries murders and disappearances with me along for the ride. We would blaze along in his red hotrod car and run head long into sometimes unforeseen danger. I found that not only had my limp all but disappeared, as the danger became a panacea to my psychosomatic limp but also I couldn’t for the life of me stop my typewriter keys from pounding out these adventures.

Story after story flowed from my hands, and I sent each one off to the Strand Magazine, who printed my stories with relish. He quickly became a sensation, and not just in the gossip pages. Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective and party thrower was the sensation of that summer. He blamed me entirely for this success and the attention it brought him.

People from far and wide sought his consult, with myself sitting by his side. At parties people would beg me to introduce them to the great Sherlock Holmes and I would fob them off with excuse after excuse. Vapid, empty faces full of champagne and gin, vying for the attention of my friend.

It was enough to make you ill after a time.

Eventually I would forsake the parties unless I knew my cousin and Mary were going, which under Greg’s iron fist wasn’t often. Only when Greg was itching to see the babes on parade would they go and so too would I. At these parties, it wasn’t long before Greg disappeared and so too would Molly off with Sherlock. They would quick step and waltz, dance until dawn. Only with eyes for one another.

\---

The next day after one of Sherlock’s lavish parties I had endeavored to write down some of the amazing details from my adventures with Sherlock Holmes when a knock on the door found the little cottage I inhabited flooded with vases of flowers. Every corner of the room was bursting with petals and perfume. I looked around in my undershirt and pants, suspenders dangling from my hips at all of them, running a hand through my sweaty sandy blonde hair. Where had all of these arrangements come from? A knock at the door surprised me with my best friend dressed to the nines in a white linen suit as he swooped his way into my house and gestured to all the flowers around the place.

“So can I get anything else for you old chap?” He questioned with a crooked smile.

“More flowers.” I joked sarcastically. All at once he seemed to relax, his deep chuckle rolling out of his chest, lighting up a cigarette and smoked in front of the window that pointed towards the mansion. He always seemed drawn to whichever direction he thought my cousin would be.

“Say why don’t we go over to the main house and you can introduce me to everyone properly.” Sherlock suggested.

“Um… okay.” I agreed. He waited until I made myself decent and drove me up to the main house, in his fancy russet red breezer. I hadn’t been in a serviceable car such as this in all my life.

We went inside to find Greg, Mary and Molly lounging about in the parlor this time. The women gushed at meeting the Sherlock Holmes personally, and I was pleased to see that my being his closest friend impressed Mary. Though I did notice some tension between Greg and Sherlock as they shook hands. Both men stood tall and seemed to gauge each other the way alpha males do before a fight.

“Say chaps, why don’t we take the women and go do something fun in the city.” Sherlock suggested to Greg in his charming way.

“I don’t know…” Molly seemed weary of Greg and Sherlock being together in a room for too long.

“Oh come on, Molls… A big bucket of ice, a bottle of champagne, a bottle of whiskey. It could be fun!” Greg encouraged, his eyes mesmerizing Molly in a magnetic way I’d seen him use on women before. Molly was dazzled.

“Well alright!” Molly agreed with a small smile to her husband. Mary agreed.

“It seems a man can’t say no to the ladies. Let’s go to London!” Sherlock confirmed with a clap of his hands.

We made plans to meet at the Savoy and decide where to go from there, and off we were, Sherlock and Molly somehow negotiated their way into being alone in Lestrade’s canary yellow convertible as it was only seated for two and Mary, myself and Greg were of in Sherlock’s car with the luggage in tow.

It seemed to be a race for the men as they barreled their way through the country roads that led to London. Back and forth they wove the cars at a barreling pace, and both Mary and I exchanged concerned looks and she hung onto the back of the front seat until her knuckles turned white. When Sherlock tried to overtake Greg again, they almost hit a grazing herd of sheep and were forced to wait behind. Greg had to stop for petrol and it was then I noticed a woman looking down from a window in anticipation for him. She was a dark skinned beauty and seemed eager to see him.

A greasy weasel of a man came out from the garage to fill Greg’s car. “What will you be wantin’ today Mr. Lestrade?” The man questioned rubbing his hands on a greasy towel.

“Petrol, Anderson! And be quick!” Lestrade smiled friendly, enough and then the woman that had been in the window made her appearance.

“Hello, Mr. Lestrade!” The beauty came out from inside the garage and strolled over to Greg to shake his hand, which Lestrade gallantly kissed.

“Always good to see you, Sally.” I heard Greg charming the woman as she smiled.

“Ugh, I hate when he does this.” Mary grumbled from her seat in the back. She petulantly flopped against the back seat, not caring for the wrinkles it put into her linen frock.

“What is it?” I asked out of concern.

“See that girl?” Mary pointed with her chin and leaned forward so the she could talk into my ear, and I tried to pay attention and not be distracted by her perfume.

“Uh huh…” I confirmed in uncertainty.

“That’s Sally Anderson, the girl that Greg’s been seeing on the sly.” Mary’s whispered in my ear as her face clouded over with disgust as she watched the two flirt shamelessly in broad daylight while Anderson, who I was told was the woman’s husband filled the tank of our car, too stupid to notice what was happening right in front of him.

“Does Molly know?” I questioned with concern.

“It wouldn’t be the first time. Ever since their marriage turned chilly, well… Let’s just say that Lestrade’s not one to let his heels cool when things don’t work out. I saw them once while I was on my way in to see Molly, I’ve been trying to work out how to tell her.” Mary confirmed miserably as Sherlock and Molly droved passed in a blaze of yellow. I noticed not only that they were seated as close as one could get and that Molly and Greg saw each other, each making the other one mad with jealousy as they flirted with other people. Anderson finished and Greg came back in a hurry now mad to catch up with Sherlock’s car. He threw money in Anderson’s direction and sped off.

I found myself not wanting to go to London but trapped into it just the same.

\---

Thankfully, London was the just the same as ever.

We reached the Savoy though from the evidence it appeared that Molly and Sherlock arrived and were already settled. The man used his wealth to secure us the penthouse, and much like the parlor at the mansion house, I found myself idle in the parlor surrounded by champagne and a large block of ice being chipped away at on request by a butler.

Mary and Molly were both fanning themselves but it did no good to squelch the sweltering heat that suffocated the city.

“Someone open a window!” Molly begged, dabbing at her neck with her handkerchief.

“They are open.” Lestrade grumbled ordering the butler cut more ice. He eventually grew frustrated with the neatness of the butler’s skills and angrily waved the man away. Molly excused the poor clot for his own protection as the weather shortened Greg’s mood considerably. Up until that moment, the men had sniped at each other. My friend remained a cool cucumber still fully in his suit but Lestrade had long removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He was pouring himself yet another whiskey. They made polite conversation sure, but the underlying tone of it all could not be missed.

“You know Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I just want to know something.” Greg started in on my friend.

“Now chaps…” I parried trying to cool tensions before the rose too far.

“No please John, let’s not interrupt Mr. Lestrade and his inquiry.” Sherlock dismissed me. “Go ahead Lestrade, you were going to ask me a question.”

“Yes, why are you doing all this?” Lestrade wondered. Though I couldn’t follow his line of inquiry Mary and I exchanged a worried glance.

“Doing all what?” Sherlock shrugged with a smirk.

“The consulting, the crime solving, all the showboating with the money and the mansion with all the cars. Why does a man do all of that?” Lestrade wondered, taking a sip from his melting whiskey while his jaw worked with tension.

“Why does any man do what he does? Why do you?” Sherlock queried. “For the excitement of life, I suppose.”

“I was just wondering if it was to just be eccentric, or if it was for some less morally ambiguous reason.” Lestrade grumbled as he fisted more ice into his glass. Sherlock came over to do the same and walked to the other side of the room. “I was just wondering if it was to gain the attention of a lady.”

“If it was I wouldn’t know I don’t have many of those running around if they aren’t at my parties.” Sherlock laughed amused at Lestrade’s interrogations.

“Please Greg no more!” Molly begged her husband. But that wouldn’t stop Lestrade.

“I’m just wondering Molly who the hell this chap thinks he is?! Thinking he can just walk into a man’s house and disturb the peace.” Lestrade questioned. Sherlock turned away to hide his blush, a curl of his lip rising in disgust. He hated when it was mentioned that Molly was married to another man.

“Greg…” Molly scolded.

“No really Molly, I suppose he thinks it’s an easy thing to do, and my hat’s off to you chap.” Greg came up to Sherlock and clinked the man’s glass with his own. “Really, it takes a girl like-” Before Lestrade could finish his gross suggestion about Molly, her weak character, and her cheating on her husband, Sherlock rounded upon the Detective Inspector and had him lying on the coffee table between the two ladies on the flat of his back. There was a look in his eye I had never seen of my best friend, his eyes blazed icy blue and were thunderous. It was in that moment that I conceived that if he could, he would kill a man without remorse or guilt. And if it were to be any man, it would be Lestrade. To free Molly of the man by such means in that moment would give him great joy.

“Shut. Up.” Sherlock growled. Molly gasped and turned away from the scene in shock. Sherlock immediately withdrew from Greg as if slapped and turned to Molly, rushing to her side. “Molly! Molly please, I’m not like that. Please Molly, please, you know me.” Sherlock begged.

“Interesting company, you and your cousin keep darling.” Lestrade muttered in a rumble all saccharine sweet now that it appeared he had the advantage of the situation. He straightened his collar. “You know everyone thinks that Sherlock Holmes is some sort of genius, a wizard at this deductive reasoning, but I don’t think he’s honest at all. I think he’s a fraud. A fake.” Greg spat out. He pointed out that he was married to Molly and she had already chosen him. Sherlock argued that the lady was still free to change her mind and that they were in love.

“Please Molly, we are in love, right? Tell him. Tell him!” Sherlock begged. His eyes were sad and pleading in a way I had never seen of my friend.

“Please... I- I just want to go home.” Molly begged running from the room. Mary followed after her, scolding both men with a look.

“See she’ll always choose me.” Lestrade smirked. I did my best to keep the men in their corners and after dinner we left the Savoy. Molly had chosen to drive with Sherlock again and Mary had to pack some purchases she had made that day.

On the ride home, we spotted an accident in front of the petrol station and who had been hit. Police at the scene described the canary yellow car that had seen striking the woman. It was Sally Anderson. Greg went cold and didn’t seem moved by her death in the slightest. He was questioned and claimed he knew nothing about it, though the three of us knew that the car was his, and that Holmes must have been the one driving.

We returned well after Sherlock and Molly did though I hadn’t seen the yellow car in the drive. Lestrade seemed to be happy just to be rid of Holmes for a night and bid me good evening. Mary said her own little version of goodnight on my lips and they drove back to the mansion with Molly who seemed in shock. I went for a walk to look for my friend.

I didn’t get further than the garage until I ran into the man, and saw him washing the yellow convertible. The water was pink and I met Sherlock’s eye. Immediately he explained to me that Molly had been driving when they crashed and he made plans of how to cover it up. He also talked to me about how he and Molly made plans to run away, and all Molly had to do was make a call to him.

“Would you wait up with me, old chap?” Sherlock asked once we had moved from the garage back into the house. I agreed and we made are way through its halls. Talking, chatting, and saying nothing at all until we came to the terrace and pool that looked over the gardens. “I knew it was a great mistake for a man like me to fall in love...” Sherlock mumbled self-deprecatingly while we gazed out to the fading stars. Light was starting to turn the sky purple as the sun rose to greet the day. Molly still hadn’t called. We agreed to meet later in the day so that I could check up on him.

\---

The next day once I had some proper sleep I returned to Sherlock and he still hadn’t heard from Molly. He was all excitement however and pulled me along with him on an adventure back to London. My friend had a meeting with someone he couldn’t pass up and begged me to come along with him. With a word that any call from anyone at all was to be patched through at the restaurant we were going to. The butler bowed and watched as we whizzed off through the country side back to London.

I sat with Sherlock until he was excused for his phone calls, many that came in but none of them from Molly, with a man I shall never forget. It was Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. He was the complete opposite from Sherlock in every respect that I doubted they were brothers. Where Sherlock was tall and lean, his brother was just as tall but stocky. Sherlock’s hair was black with slicked back curls, and Mycroft’s was reddish brown and straight as a pin. Sherlock’s eyes were always keen and eager, and Mycroft’s were beady and suspicious. Those eyes were trained on me as Sherlock excused himself.

“My brother seems to think you a very capable sort of friend.” Mycroft sneered a smile.

“I suppose so.” I agreed trying to remain as genial as possible.

“He doesn’t have many of those I can assure you.” Mycroft announced as lunch was placed before us. Sherlock still hadn’t returned.

“Why are you telling me all this?” I questioned fork poised to begin eating.

“I worry about him constantly.” Mycroft frowned in honesty. “And I worry about the obsession he had with Molly Lestrade, who…” Mycroft removed a red journal from his breast pocket and opened it to the page in question. “…is married – it says here – to a Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and is you cousin. You rent their carriage house, but instead you choose to spend your summer days rushing off with my brother on his cases instead.” Mycroft concluded snapping the little journal closed and putting it back in his pocket.

“Alright who exactly are you?” I questioned, my body tense with adrenaline.

“I’m Sherlock’s brother and I hold a minor position in the British government. It has its uses, certainly for gathering information.” Mycroft said pointedly, eyeing me over the salads in front of us.

“What do you want with me?” I asked in a rush.

“Nothing, I merely ask that you look out for my brother.” Mycroft explained.

“Of course I will, but I want to know, why?” I pulled away in frustration still puzzled with the man.

“I told you I worry about him. But more importantly I worry about his attachment to this Molly girl.” Mycroft’s lips pulled up in a sneer much as I had seen on Sherlock when confronted with something that repulsed him.

“Why should that bother you?” I questioned.

“He claims he loves her, and for the first time in my life I believe that to be true.” Mycroft looked over to Sherlock who was hanging up the phone at the bar. “Sentiment is often a weakness found on the losing side,” was all Mycroft said before withdrawing. He excused himself shortly after Sherlock returned. With a private word to his brother, Sherlock and I finished lunch and he returned to his house.

I found myself alone in London as Sherlock was off on some adventure he didn’t need to invite me on. He claimed it to only be a four, on his scale of importance and intrigue and I walked along the streets looking for something to intrigue myself in return. I would return to the carriage house that night and would meet up with Holmes again the next day. While walking I met Mary. We talked, ate, and then fell into bed with one another. It was inevitable really. Mary was standing in my London flat that sat above my practice and I watched her back in the window that I now knew was as silky smooth as the shift she was wearing.

“I’m done with it all.” Mary announced as she gazed at the London sky.

“Done with what?” I asked sitting up in the tumble of sheets.

“Done with Molly and Lestrade, and all of that ugly drama, done with the parties.” Mary explained.

“I know what you mean with those two, but she is my cousin.” We shared a smile of acknowledgement about that.

“I’m sick of it all, the pale glamour and everyone rushing to be someone popular and important. The money and all of the expensive lavish lifestyles.” Mary sighed and turned her attention away from the window back to me. “You know I wouldn’t mind being the wife of a London doctor.” Mary and I shared a look at that and she left with a promise that she would call on me once she set her affairs in order. I went to bed to catch the first train out to Brighton. It was time for the summer to end and I had to return to my practice. I hoped my friend would come stay in London with me.

\---

I returned to Brighton the next day and caught a cab to Sherlock’s house. He was still waiting by the phone for Molly to call. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that Molly would. He just needed the phone to ring. Then he and Molly would escape, perhaps move to America and be happy and free. That’s how he had explained it to me the night we watched the sun rise. I saw from the that Sherlock was waiting, but was going for one last swim before the pool would be too bogged down with leaves from the autumn for swimming.

It was then I watched a figure standing behind Sherlock, and the glint of a gun. I ran into the house, and saw that it was Anderson. The man believed, that it hadn’t been Molly driving but was Sherlock instead.

“I owe you, Sherlock.” Was all I heard Anderson say before he shot my best friend, and then turned the gun on himself.

The phone rang once, and before I picked it up the line went dead.

My best friend was killed, and Molly never called.

All those people that came to the great Sherlock Holmes’s house to partake of his hospitality, of his champagne. And none of them came to the funeral. He threw parties, surrounded himself with people but none of that mattered in his death. In death, we are all alone. Mycroft came only once, gave Sherlock’s coffin a miserable nod in confirmation that he had been right all along and left. I mourned my friend’s loss alongside his butler. But other than that there was no one. No one mourned, no one cried for my best friend save me.

I tried calling Molly. Over and over again I rang the number for her mansion. Eventually a butler did pick up to tell me that the Detective Inspector and Mrs. Lestrade had left the mansion for the season and were abroad and that the message of Sherlock’s death would be passed along. Never before I had thought so little of my own cousin, my own family, as I did in that moment.

I wondered if, for the one and only time, if my best friend had gotten it wrong about Molly. If love had made him blind, I wondered if she had ever loved Sherlock at all. In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice. "Always try to see the best in people," he would say. As a consequence, I'm inclined to reserve all judgements. But even I have my limits.

I could forgive many things, but I could never forgive my cousin this.

\---

_In this my dear Reader, I leave you._

_It is now a cold and dreary world I occupy with my best friend no longer in it. I would hold so many regrets from that summer. But what I regret now most was that I no longer could see my best friend smile. His smile was one of those rare smiles that you may come across four or five times in life. It seemed to understand you and believe in you just as you would love to be understood and believed in. Without it to greet me, or to see it after a case, I find little comfort in this cold world filled with excess and I did marry my wife, my Mary, and in this I hold some comfort. I have talked to Molly since that summer but find she and Lestrade are now together as they ever were._

_I will always believe in Sherlock Holmes. Holmes believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther... And one fine morning - So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past._

_\---_

 

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies to you all and to Fitzgerald and Sir Doyle.
> 
> Please don't hit me! I didn't want to kill Sherlock!!! Y'all know that's how the book ends! It's not my fault! *dodges copies of great gatsby thrown in my direction* I saw who threw that! That's just rude!!! There are better ways to express your anger! *dodges desk chair* Please be gentle in the comments I did what I could with lovelymissmolly's brilliant idea. 
> 
> And to be frank. *whispers* I didn't really like the Great Gatsby.
> 
> Well! I look forward to hearing what you have to say! Until then, I'm off to write some more! *makes a quick dash to the exit sign*
> 
> Comments and Kudos are our currency of love, spread the wealth around.


End file.
